Nightmare
by Mml Moe
Summary: I don't consider nightmares a shameless self-insertion fiction. This is what I could remember from a dream I suddenly woke from Wednesday morning. I may just have to add an ending to this sometime.


The young Wraith she held off with the legs of a pilfered chair lunges once more. Long hair and claws, he hisses in anger when those pointed pieces of wood jab him in the gut. She would tire soon, the chair would grow heavier then he would have his prize.

From all the trouble she has caused thus far, the Wraith would not simply feed on her now, no. He would enjoy this meal; savor every ounce of defiance and fight this woman had. She was a rare treat for one so low in the Wraith hierarchy, a meal suited for a Commander. This is his, a taste of what he could have.

When the chair legs rise to strike him again, the Wraith grips the two topmost legs. The woman was thin, the sternum and outward spray of ribs visible as she strains against his hold. The human's eyes were wide, muted gray-green as she tries to push the chair to distance herself from that grinning maw of sharp gray shark teeth.

"Fuck," she gasps when her only weapon is ripped from her hands. Pain throbs at her right index finger and the left's thumb. Half of the thumb nail has been ripped free, dribbling tiny pricks of blood that cover her hand as she holds them up to push against the chest of her attacker.

Death, here he was standing before her pushing her against the wall against her pitiful effort to ward him off. The smiling face above her twists into a grin, laughing as she had clenched her fists and hit him across the chest. The blow from her sharp knuckled fist strikes him across the jaw, erasing that grin. His smooth face contorts in anger, how dare she, the expression says.

A swift flick of his arm sends the woman against the far wall. Her vision spins, colors invert as she hits her head against the organic wall. Pinpricks of light obscure the Wraith advancing on her.

Her vision begins to clear as another dark shape looms out of the dimly lit bedroom. An arm reaches out and grabs the young male by the hair, twisting it around to pull him back and to his knees. One armor guard glitters blue and silver against the single light from the screen to her left, where text scrolls downward like rain drops.

After a moment of words she cannot hear, nor wanted to, the young Wraith, her would be killer, rises. The grip around his silken hair releases and he sulks off, vanishing behind the dark figure.

It wasn't the fact that she could not see his face that unnerved her; it was that he said not a word. The woman presses herself against the wall, slowly creeping her way to stand. "Thanks," she says.

The left side of her head throbs, the same spot where she had been hit on the head so many years before when falling out of a swing. She feels dizzy, nauseated as she keeps her balance by the security of the wall at her back.

Stepping forward, the figure is uncovered slowly by the dim light. The angular face with its starburst tattoo looks down at her; all harsh lines and shadows as the expression never waivers from that of annoyance.

In one fluid motion, he pins her. An arm on either side of her head, he leans down. The woman squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the tip of his nose brush her cheek. Breath rolls over her neck, hot, leaving her skin chilled between each billow of air. She didn't know what the Wraith wanted or what he was going to do with her.

The cold chill of fear travels the length of her spine as she wonders what will happen when she dies. Her eyes open when the sharp surface of his finger guard trails down her cheek, pressing into the skin so as to leave a scratch but light enough not to draw blood.

Her view of the floor is forcefully brought back up to his face when he grips her chin. The Wraith's breath was sour, making her nausea threaten to evict her dinner.

"What is it, you tiny thing, that makes you so desirable to one of my crew that he must try to hide you away?

His voice was deep, melodic in a way with its dual tones and fluctuation. She looks him directly in the eyes. The thin pupils dilate as his nostrils flare. "Well? Have you no tongue, child?"


End file.
